The Summer of the Mourning Cloak

by Kathleen Nelson

  As she shimmied down, Zak was there waiting for her. A single gesture fobbed him off and she began to run.

  Hyslop ran and ran. She raced through the garden, weaving through flower beds and shrubs, hurtling over lawns. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. It was as if she were still flying.

  She reached the woods and continued on through the trees, barely pausing in her flight. The woods were dark and welcoming, but she still had to be free, out in the open.

  It was only when she reached the meadow that Hyslop slowed down. The field was full of tall grasses and thistles and wild flowers. As Hyslop plunged into it, she put up a myriad of butterflies. The grasses parted before her and it seemed like a million Painted Ladies flew up in the air to join her.

  It was only there, breathing in the hot earthy smell of the summer meadow, amidst the flapping and fluttering of the wings all around her that Hyslop stopped. She stretched out her arms and immediately butterflies landed on her. She gazed down at them and breathed calmly.

  As one landed gently on her hair she threw her head back and exhaled.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Zak is filled with Wonder

  Although Hyslop had commanded Zak to wander round the estate to look for The Beauty, he had given up circling the woods and fields after a short time. He did not feel at ease until he had returned to wait outside the furniture maker’s workshop. He knew at every point of his wanderings that Hyslop was there at the centre, magnetically drawing him back.

  He wanted to be on hand when she came out. He would pretend that he had searched everywhere with great thoroughness. It did not seem to Zak that Hyslop herself held out much hope of finding this butterfly. If he saw one, would anyone believe him? And even if he did see one, how could he catch it and hold it? The chances were remote: it was an impossible dream. Every part of him longed to be near the girl Hyslop. He could not help it. It was like breathing. If someone asked you to stop breathing for a while, even if they ordered you or begged you to, it wasn’t something you would be able to do. He hunkered down to wait. Waiting was what he was best at.

  So it was that he was hiding behind a low hedge when he caught sight of Hyslop climbing out of the skylight window onto the roof of the furniture maker’s workshop. Whatever was she doing? Despite his intention to remain hidden, Zak stood up. There was something about her face, her expression – her whole demeanour – that frightened him. There was something strange and terrible about her. Something was not right.

  As she clambered right out of the window and made her way down to the edge of the roof, Zak opened his mouth in horror. The roof was dangerously high. She would fall if she was not careful. Then, as he watched her stand up at the very edge of the roof, Zak realised that Hyslop was not going to be careful. Her eyes blazed like black stars, and there was nothing careful behind them. She didn’t care. He saw that she was going to jump and he let out a cry.

  The world went into slow motion for Zak like it does sometimes in films. Hyslop bent her knees slightly then leaned forward. There was no way back now. Her arms were outstretched, and she flew through the air. Zak found himself gasping for air. She soared towards the tree. It had seemed an impossible distance away, but somehow she landed in it. She crashed through its branches and then all was quiet.

  For a moment or two he stood there, unable to move. He began to breathe more normally again. She was not going to fall. Somehow, incredibly, she was inside the tree.

  Just as he was about to step forward to look up into the tree for her, she scrambled down. Her arms were gashed and bleeding, and her eyes were still blazing fire.

  She did not actually look at him, but he knew that she was aware of him. She put her hand out in a gesture which unmistakeably told him to keep away. Zak shrank back from her.

  When she began running he hesitated for a moment, before the invisible cord that attached him to her began to pull him after her. Zak could run fast but there was no way he could keep up with Hyslop. She ran as if a wild beast were chasing her, she ran as if she had wings, and Zak, running as fast as he could, was left behind.

  When she reached the woods she did not pick her way between the trees but seemed to dive and dodge through them, scarcely slowing her pace. Zak was seriously out of breath by the time he saw her reach the meadow and slow down at last.

  There it was that Zak witnessed the strangest sight of all, even more memorable than her fantastic leap. Brightly coloured butterflies in their hundreds flew up from the long grass and flowers as Hyslop ran through the field. They weren’t Beauties or Admirals as far as Zak could see, but they were all of one sort. The air around Hyslop was filled with them. She slowly came to a stop and let them circle around her head. Her arms were still stretched out, and several butterflies landed on them. A single butterfly landed on her hair, and the girl Hyslop threw back her head, and seemed happy at last.

  Quote

  “The females of most species take enormous care during egg-laying, placing their offspring in situations where they are best adapted to survive… ”

  (from The Butterflies of Britain and Ireland by Jeremy Thomas and Richard Lewington)

  Chapter Forty Four

  The Beauty at Last

  Zak had been unable to sleep. It was nothing to do with the heat, which always made his grandmother grumble.

  “Didn’t sleep a wink,” she would say every morning as she thrust a cup of tea at his father. “Not a wink.”

  Well, a wink of sleep wasn’t much. But surely winking was closing one eye briefly whilst the other eye was open. If his grandmother had been winking all night long, it was hardly surprising she hadn’t been able to sleep. Neither Zak nor his father ever commented, however. They would sit in silence while she ranted on about how hot it was.

  “How is someone of my age meant to sleep in this heat?” she would demand, clattering dishes around in the sink. “How, in God’s name, I ask you?”

  She would ask, but they weren’t meant to answer. Adults often asked questions like this: questions that weren’t really questions.

  It was questions in his head that had kept Zak awake, however. Questions like : What was Hyslop doing? Why had she jumped from the roof, and risked breaking her neck? Were her arms still bleeding? Why had she run into the field of butterflies, and why did they land on her? How soon could he see her?

  He crept out of his room once it was light. He knew it was very early in the morning, and he paused on the landing to listen to the sounds of the house. He could hear snores coming from both his grandmother’s room and his father’s. No doubt the old woman would claim the heat had kept her awake, but it sounded like more snoring than winking was going on.

  There was nothing worth grabbing on the way out. There was no bread left, and the fridge contained only milk which smelt sour and some raw meat, dripping blood onto the shelf. Zak decided that Mrs Braithwaite’s tomatoes were more appetising for breakfast, and he made his way out of the house, along the path through the woods to the estate. It was too early for butterflies but he glanced around him just in case.

  He had always loved the garden in the early mornings before anyone else was around. The birds were singing loudly all around him, and the greenhouse was already hot and steamy. He pulled a couple of radishes from the soil, wiped them roughly, and ate them with his greenhouse tomatoes. Now that Hyslop had come into his life he loved the mornings even more. Each morning held the promise of seeing her, being with her, maybe speaking to her. He didn’t ever want to go back to the prospect of a day without a chance of seeing her. One or two days might be bearable, but there had to be something to hope and wish for. If that mother of hers took her away, Zak knew he would not be able to bear it.

  As always, he was not good at judging how much time passed as he sat by the vegetable patch, but it felt like a “whole hour.” His father was due to take Mr Braithwaite’s car in to town to be serviced, so there was no fear of him bursting in on the scene and barking out orders. Zak felt unusua
lly restless, and he got up and wandered towards Keeper’s Cottage.

  There, just coming out of the cottage door, walking purposefully towards him, was the girl Hyslop.

  “Hello, Zak,” she said. Her voice was flat and neutral, and the terrifying flashing was gone from her eyes.

  Zak found himself looking at her arms. One was scratched and scarred. She saw him looking and held it out in front of her.

  “It’s not too bad,” she said, examining it closely herself. “Could have been worse. A lot worse.”

  Zak didn’t know what to say. He had questions in his head, buzzing around, but didn’t know how to ask them.

  “I’m going to see Northy,” said Hyslop. “You can walk with me as far as his house if you like.”

  She set off and Zak fell into step behind her. It was such a short distance. He wished it could have been ten times as far. He wished it could have been ten miles. He wished he could think of something to say to her. Her hair was shining in the morning sun, and he wished he could reach out and touch it.

  “You… you jumped into the tree,” he said awkwardly, as they approached the old man’s house.

  Hyslop did not turn round.

  “From that roof,” added Zak, desperate to get her attention. “That roof that was high up.”

  “Yes,” she said, half turning this time, “it was quite a jump, wasn’t it?”

  That was clearly all she was going to say on the matter. She let herself into the overgrown garden by the little gate.

  “Bye then, Zak,” she said. “See you later.”

  Zak made an inarticulate noise of farewell and watched as she rang the doorbell and was let into the house. Why did she prefer the company of the old man with his yellow teeth and his odd head slapping and swearing, to being with him? He kicked a stone and wandered around crossly. A period of time that felt like half an hour went past. It may have been longer. A butterfly landed on the path just ahead of him. It was one of those he had seen in the field with Hyslop. It flew up and then landed again, a little way ahead. Zak took a step towards it and it flew up again.

  For a long time it just sat on the path. Zak watched it. Butterflies were fine, but he didn’t know why the girl Hyslop had to spend hours watching them and then reading about them in books. He knew that the other girls in his class at school weren’t interested in butterflies. But then, Hyslop wasn’t like those other girls. Zak sighed. She wasn’t like anyone else at all. Anywhere.

  He wondered what it was that she was doing in the old man’s house. His grandmother had said it was a weird house. They were probably looking at books about insects together. Or maybe at jars of poison, or stuffed owls, or animal bones. She was interested in the strangest things and he wished that she were more interested in him. He sighed again.

  A butterfly rose up and did a little dance in the air just ahead of him, then it flew towards a nearby tree. Zak wandered after it. It wasn’t one that Hyslop would want to know about. After all, she had seen hundreds of these in the field yesterday. They were quite common at the moment. He kicked at some gravel.

  The butterfly was joined by another. It wasn’t the same sort. Zak screwed up his face. This was different from any that he’d seen before, and he scratched his head as he tried to remember if he’d seen a picture of it before. It fluttered around the original butterfly, and the sun caught its browny-blackish-red-purple wing colouring. It reminded him of all the colours in Hyslop’s hair. As it stopped and displayed its wings, Zak stood still, his mouth wide open: it was a dark butterfly with cream borders. He gasped.

  “The Beauty!” he whispered. “It’s The Beauty!”

  He walked backwards away from it. What was he to do? If he turned and ran to the old man’s house he might lose sight of it. If he ran up to it he might frighten it away.

  “Hyslop!” he called, as he kept walking backwards towards the old man’s gate. He did not dare turn round. He continued walking backwards, never taking his eyes from The Beauty.

  Then he began shouting as loudly as could : “HYSLOP!”

  Over and over and over again he called her name.

  Chapter Forty Five

  The Mourning Cloak

  “Can I see the empty drawer again?” Hyslop asked Sir Northcote. “You know, the one where the Camberwell Beauty is meant to go.”

  The old man slapped his head and muttered to himself. He seemed even more agitated than normal this morning. He was not himself at all.

  “What did you say?”

  “You know, Northy, the bottom drawer.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to see,” he said shortly, “just an old label.”

  He was definitely in an odd mood, but Hyslop was feeling rather strange herself.

  “Yes, well, I’d like to see that label.”

  Sir Northcote shuffled over to his butterfly drawers and laid the empty drawer on Hyslop’s lap.

  “Not the most interesting drawer,” he said, his hand hovering near his head, as if about to slap, but trying not to. “I thought you wanted to look at the Blues today.”

  “Mmmm, yes,” said Hyslop. “I do, but I just wanted to see this label again. It’s hard to read it’s so faded.”

  “Yes, well, it’s over seventy years since it was written,” said Sir Northcote. “And it’s copperplate script which no one can write nowadays. No one takes the time to write elegantly.” Hyslop looked up, waiting for the inevitable: “Dunderheids!” which Sir Northcote obligingly spat out with some venom in the Scottish accent of his long-dead Nanny.

  “Everything nowadays is printed off computers, Northy,” she said. “OK, I was mistaken. The label just says Nymphalis Antiopa, and I knew that name. It’s just that I thought there was another name. You know, one of the names you said last time”

  “It has been called many things,” said Sir Northcote. “The Camberwell Beauty. The Grand Surprise. The Mourning Cloak.”

  “The Mourning Cloak!” cried Hyslop. “That’s it! Yes, I like that name. Did people wear actual mourning cloaks in the olden days when someone died? “

  “In Victorian times people were always mourning one thing or another,” said Sir Northcote. “There was a whole cult of mourning. Queen Victoria wore black for forty years after Albert, her husband, died. Quite tedious of her.”

  “It does seem rather extreme,” said Hyslop. “Ah well, let’s start with the Common Blue, Northy.”

  She put her head to one side. Through the open window she could hear her own name being called.

  “Hi – i – slop!” and then louder and more insistently: “HYSLOP! HYSLOP!”

  Sir Northcote scowled. He could hear it too. Her name was repeated over and over again.

  “For goodness sake, it’s that boy,” he said crossly. “The Judd boy.”

  “HYSLOP!”

  “I shall tell Judd to stop him from pestering us,” snapped the old man. “I’m sick of him hanging around all the time.”

  There was something about the way Zak was shouting that made Hyslop put the drawer down and rush towards the door.

  “Come with me, Northy,” she said. “Come quickly.”

  They went outside into the bright sunlight together. There, a short way up the path towards the main house, was Zak, standing with his back to them, calling Hyslop’s name at the top of his voice.

  “What is it?” cried Hyslop. Zak still did not turn round to face them.

  “The Beauty!” he shouted, pointing straight ahead of him.

  Hyslop broke into a run. Sir Northcote slapped his head and followed.

  “For Goodness sake, that’s a Painted Lady, Zak,” said Hyslop crossly.

  “No,” said Zak. “Not that one.” He took a few steps forward and pointed again. “The one beside it. That one there, see.”

  As he did so, a dark-coloured butterfly flew up into the air.

  “Good God!” cried Sir Northcote, staring open-mouthed at the butterfly, then he said it again: “Good God!”

  “It’s The Beauty,�
� said Zak. “Oh no, it’s flying away!”

  The butterfly flew high up into the tree and all three of them groaned in unison.

  “It’s coming down,” cried Hyslop. “Look, over there. Quickly!”

  She set off along the path and the other two followed, the old man a little way behind.

  “Don’t lose sight of it,” he called. “Don’t wait for me. You young ones must run! Follow it! Oh heavens, I don’t have my jar. I need my jar!”

  The beautiful dark butterfly was flying now in a reasonably straight line, and it led them across the lawn in front of the main house. Hyslop hoped it might stop and nectar on the buddleia, where several brightly coloured butterflies were already congregating. The Beauty did not pause, however, but flew, in an even more direct line towards the dahlia patch.

  “It’s going for the vegetables!” called Zak.

  “Keep up, Hyslop!” cried Sir Northcote. “Don’t lose it! I need my net! And my killing jar!”

  “I can still see it!” Hyslop and Zak were running together.

  “Oh, it’s too late!” The old man shouted. He was some distance behind them now and out of breath from trying to keep up.

  The butterfly soared over the dahlias to the vegetable garden, where it hovered above the runner bean wigwam. It looked as if Zak was right, and the vegetables were going to attract it.

  Down it fluttered, down onto a yellow courgette flower. Hyslop put her hand out to stop Zak.

  “Not too close!” she said in a low voice, as if the butterfly could somehow hear her. “We don’t want to scare it.”

  At that moment they heard a scream. It was a sound that smashed into the heat haze of the morning sunshine and made the whole scene shatter like a broken mirror. It was a hideous sound, more animal than human in its horror, a sound that entwined itself into the memories of all three of them forever afterwards. The Beauty itself seemed to hear it and shudder in the air, then it was off, heading for Keeper’s Cottage.